


Study Break

by xxAphrodite



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: M/M, Mirror Sex, Some mention of immortality I guess, Vampire Bites, We're pretending there's a happy ending to the tadpole sitch, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27168322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxAphrodite/pseuds/xxAphrodite
Summary: Seraphiel doesn't need any more "breaks". His research is important. Astarion disagrees.It's literally just smut set some time in a maybe distant happy future but also I don't know how to write smut so.......
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 137





	Study Break

**Author's Note:**

> where are all my gale simps at  
> all i see is astarion fics as far as the eye can see, so I guess I'll just have to be the one to write the gale fics, smh  
> anyways here's more astarion

Astarion has the most awful habit.

Seraphiel tilts his head and endures the teeth pressed against his neck, his fingers fanning out over his notes. “Astarion, please. I can’t focus with you teething like this.”

He can hardly focus regardless. Astarion’s already made him break his concentration to stand up and use Astarion’s lap instead of the chair proper. But Seraphiel is heavy--or, at least, better built than his vampire is--which means Astarion enjoys where his hands are roaming for a few minutes at best before he starts complaining that wizards have no right to be this fit.

Those hands, cold enough to stiffen his muscles, enjoy the skin they’re groping at with no respect for what they’re interrupting. When the teeth come out Astarion slips Seraphiel’s robe from his shoulders before he dips far, _far_ lower. It’s not fair. Astarion knows he’s not fair. He wins every time.

“I can’t focus without touching you. Without tasting you.”

The words rumble against Seraphiel’s neck and tighten his chest. He’s nothing if not well-trained to the promise of assisting his lover’s needs. He _wants_ it. But he wants to work, too.

“You have nothing to focus on. I do.”

Astarion’s fingers slip along the curve of his hip and press against his skin. “I’m studying very hard, actually. Nothing’s quite as rewarding a subject as pleasures of the flesh.”

Seraphiel shifts, not to escape the touch, but to get those hands where he wants them. So close. He’s so close--

Fucking hells. His research is going to have to wait. Again.

“You know, if you’d just turn me, I wouldn’t have to be working this hard in the first place.”

“You are so unbearably warm,” Astarion says. “There’s got to be some way to keep you forever without losing that warmth.”

“I’ll never have time to find an alternative to lichdom or vampirism at this rate.”

“You’ll have plenty of time _after_.”

Seraphiel sets his quill aside and sighs. “There is never time after, because I’m dazed blissful. Or I’ve passed out.”

There, finally, Astarion touches him. _Really_ touches him. Seraphiel curses softly and knows before he’s admitted so that he’s given in. The cold is something welcome, and as Astarion curls around him he also sinks his teeth in, a creeping chill that slices across his neck like a strike of lightning.

Astarion drinks, and he drinks, and Seraphiel loses touch of reality and succumbs to pleasure. Seduction like this has him losing his sense of self too often, an inescapable fate.

It gets worse. Astarion growls against the shell of his ear, teeth dripping with blood. “Table. Bend over it.”

Seraphiel’s robes slip down his arms as he complies. Astarion tugs at the belt keeping the rest of the cloth close to his skin and lets out a faint noise of approval when it all hits the ground.

“Robes are so much better designed. Look at you.”

It’s a good thing Astarion’s already half-naked, because he’s right. Even leathers have too many straps and buckles. Their private time involves significantly less clothes than their adventuring time does--for Astarion, anyway. Seraphiel has no need to weigh himself down with armor. Astarion has already suggested, only half-joking, that he forgo the robes entirely. The cloth certainly doesn’t protect him.

The enchantment on them does, but it’s never worth discussing. Especially not when he’s bent over the table, just as he’s been asked, and is subject to Astarion’s hands roaming across his skin with a purpose.

“How are you feeling?” Astarion asks.

“Little dizzy,” Seraphiel admits. “Will be fine if you don’t bite me again, but…”

“But you want it, don’t you?” Astarion’s fingertips become nails, scratching gently at the expanse of his back. It feels nice. “Hells, you are something else. Look how hard you are. Look how breathless you are. Fuck. Tell me you want it.”

He _is_ hard. Unbearably so. Astarion’s touch brings out the most in him, and the bite has him gasping for more, mewling like a cat, _desperate_. Seraphiel’s numb to his own noises by now, but he knows what his vampire likes. Signs of life, an audible promise that he’s still breathing, still present. Astarion likes when he’s not, too, but that’s for later.

“I want it.” Seraphiel presses his palms against the edge of the table and turns his head, cheek pressed against paper and dried ink. “Even if I wish you could wait a bit fucking longer so I could get work done.”

“With this in front of me? Oh no, darling. Just thinking about what I’ll do to you gets me in the mood.”

Seraphiel swivels and stands tall while he still has the energy. Astarion is a bit shorter when they stand face-to-face; when Seraphiel bends down to kiss his lover he’s brought flush until they’re touching skin to skin, chest to chest, lips to lips. Astarion’s made a bloody mess. The taste of blood is all over him--this is Seraphiel’s blood, warm and rich and dripping down his chin.

“Mirror?” Seraphiel asks. It’s Astarion’s favorite, and probably yet another reason to keep Seraphiel alive. Astarion can’t see his own reflection, but he can see every movement through the way Seraphiel reacts to it. Marks, bites, the way his skin pulls and tears and rips…

Maybe the mirror is Seraphiel’s favorite, too. It’s surreal to feel Astarion but see nothing but himself in the reflection. The full-length mirror they stumbled upon the first time this kink came into play did not survive what they did to it. The one they bought for the estate--gods, they have an _estate--_ is more than durable enough to withstand their roughhousing.

Mostly it’s far enough away to not be victim to it.

Astarion holds him so tight he might leave bruises. There was a time, once, where Seraphiel was treated like a fragile thing. Astarion knows now exactly how far Seraphiel can go, how much he can take. Seraphiel is not a fragile thing.

Astarion tugs and scratches and bares his teeth against Seraphiel’s skin. Seraphiel returns the affections with a more gentle touch, his fingers threading into white curls to pull at his leisure.

“I am so glad we moved your study next to the sex dungeon,” Astarion says. He’s beaming, eyes alight, catching the low firelight of lit candles on their way a few steps down the hall.

“I cannot believe you moved my study next to the sex dungeon.”

“ _You_ ?” Astarion scoffs. “What do you mean _you_ ? Do you think _I’m_ the one who moved all your books? Books are heavy.”

Seraphiel shoulders his way into the aforementioned sex dungeon--it’s just the bedroom, although saying so is far less fun. A four-post bed bares a canopy with black velvet draped atop, dark and brooding and richly indulgent. The mirror’s fixed to the top of the bed, a brilliant silvered thing that reflects Seraphiel’s back and all the scars therein.

“Be honest with me, Astarion.”

Astarion offers a lopsided smile; his fangs poke out from the curled upturn of his lips on one side. “Honesty? Darling. Let’s let our bodies do the honesty. What do you say?”

“That’s the only reason you won’t turn me into a spawn,” Seraphiel says. Astarion hits the bed first; Seraphiel crawls forward and arches his back when the familiar, cool touch of his lover drags down even as his head tilts up towards his reflection.

“What, the mirror?”

“Yes.”

Astarion’s smile splits into a grin. “It’s not the only reason, but many of the other reasons are far less sexy and far more sentimental.”

Seraphiel graces his vampire with the warmth he reportedly loves and kisses him. Astarion clutches his wrist with one hand and slips downward with the other, lazy with his tongue but attentive with his motions. There’s always something gentle tossed in that Seraphiel isn’t expecting; here, too, Astarion laces their fingers together as if reminding himself that what they have allows for that. That kindness sits alongside cruel nips against Seraphiel’s bottom lip and a painfully slow touch that can only be punishment for taking too long to reciprocate.

Seraphiel opens his mouth when he pulls away and decides Astarion is right on letting their bodies do the talking. He spreads his legs and lays his hands on Astarion, already half-way to hard. Astarion groans under his touch, eyes narrow like he wants to complain about being teased but isn’t willing to start the conversation.

“I’d like to be conscious,” Seraphiel says. “Preferably not so bloodless I can’t think straight. If I could stand on my own two feet when we were through, too, I’d take that over the alternative.”

“I’d like to already be inside you, but since you insist on taking this slow, I’m going to take my time my way.”

“Astarion.”

“I _know_ , darling.”

Seraphiel sinks into the sheets and offers Astarion his mouth. Astarion bucks immediately, scratching at Seraphiel’s scalp and offering a pleased little gasp he’s always embarrassed to have given.

The retaliation comes in the form of a popped cork on a bottle of olive oil, dripped onto pale fingers. Astarion, for all the air he puts on of being impatient, takes his time once he’s gotten this far. He tilts his head to the mirror and presses with two fingers. It’s more uncomfortable than it is painful, although it could easily have been the latter.

“You make it so difficult to want to enjoy you,” Astarion murmurs. “It’s so much easier to ravage--but I’ll do what I can.”

Seraphiel’s mouth should be much too busy to reply, but he can’t help himself. He shifts forward, tossing his arms over Astarion’s neck, and brings himself close enough to kiss. Astarion leans closer and gives the most gorgeous, aggravated noise when Seraphiel refuses him.

“This is not what studying looks like,” Seraphiel says.

“If I took all the time I wanted, you’d _definitely_ complain. I’m doing this for you, so you can get back to work.”

He has a point, if only barely. Seraphiel winces as he’s stretched, feathering soft kisses down Astarion’s jaw until he’s pissed his vampire off well enough and kissed proper.

“How shall I take you?” Astarion asks. Normally the question is _how shall I take you first_ , but maybe he’s taking all the lamenting seriously. That must be a first.

Seraphiel glances up at the mirror and hums in thought. Astarion dives for his throat in the meantime, teeth bare, but he stops short of piercing the skin and lets out a shaky groan. Impatient. A little bit desperate. Well-behaved.

Seraphiel twists and faces the mirror, eyeing his own reflection and only his own reflection. He offers Astarion a few pumps--a motion that’s met with a murmur of satisfaction.

“Go on, then.”

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice. The cold stings in as pleasant a way as it could; Seraphiel hisses and watches his reflection writhe against nothing. Blood drips down his neck, pooling at his collarbone before it streaks across his chest by the force of hands that don’t show in the mirror.

“Look at you,” Astarion purrs. “You’re a mess. A gorgeous, _delicious_ mess. Impossibly attractive--and best of all, _mine_.”

“I’ll have you know I’m perfectly composed.”

“What a shame, that.”

It’s remedied in a matter of moments anyway. Astarion has him shaking within a few thrusts, and mewling a few more after that. Pleasure strikes him until he’s unraveled, nothing but Astarion’s name on his lips. He’s all but begging to be bitten, his neck craned as Astarion rocks him until he’s seeing stars.

“There we go.” Astarion’s voice rings low. “I don’t know if I want to let you go, darling.”

Seraphiel doesn’t know, more importantly, how Astarion can string a whole sentence together. He rolls his hips and reaches up, threading his fingers into white curls and lowering his vampire’s head against his neck. Astarion clamps down and shudders in ecstasy. Release follows, but Astarion continues to drink.

And drink.

“Astarion.” Seraphiel’s voice is weak enough without the newfound blood loss. He tightens his grip on Astarion’s hair and tugs. When that fails he searches for any spell in his recent memory and summons a skeletal hand to clutch onto Astarion’s throat.

The _chill touch_ lingers, as it does on undead things, even when Astarion pulls away and tucks Seraphiel against his chest. There is no heartbeat there to take comfort in, but there is the spreading warmth of blood consumed, making its way through the rest of Astarion’s body.

“Conscious,” Astarion repeats. “Right. I forgot.”

Seraphiel runs his hand over the puncture wounds and cures them, his skin tingling with a warmth as the blood washes off his skin. “I asked for more than conscious.”

“If you can speak, you're better than the usual,” Astarion counters, and he’s right. Between the two of them there is no restraint, just sex and pleasure until Seraphiel wakes the next day to find the clock keeps ticking. Even now Astarion’s fingers dance on his shoulders, a silent request to stay in this embrace and leave the research for a few more hours--a few more days.

There are worse fates than this. 

  
  
  



End file.
